


You Say Groupie Like It's A Bad Thing

by gala_apples



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Groupies, Hand Jobs, M/M, Panty Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott McCall is the lyricist and frontman for the best band Stiles has ever listened to in his life, and by god as his witness, he's going to get back stage to meet him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Say Groupie Like It's A Bad Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Sciles day!

Sneaking backstage, Stiles considers that he’s probably going to get fired. Not because he works at the amphitheatre and should be out on the floor rather than snooping. No, that would be downright understandable compared to what he’s actually doing. At least if he was staff he’d have half an excuse. Stiles works at a Pizza Hut, and he’s going to get fired because he owes his buddy Isaac free food for life for being let in through the back door. Stiles already knows that Isaac is going to take him up on it, probably at a rate of two or three snacks a day. Isaac’s the kind of stoner who has constant munchies. If anyone watches his future transactions Stiles is totally fucked. _He_ doesn’t have comped food, never mind his friends.

It’s worth the inevitable firing though. Somewhere in this rabbit warren of rooms is Scott McCall. And his back up musicians too, but Stiles’s not looking for them. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t appreciate them. He does, they make the music happen. But it’s Scott who writes the lyrics, which means he’s the soul of the band. Besides, Scott’s the hot one.

Or, at least it’s worth it if he actually finds Scott before getting caught. And getting caught is looming on the horizon. What little ‘no, I’m supposed to be here’ cover Stiles has is seriously degraded by the fact that he’s wearing a merch shirt; black with the four faces of the band printed Andy Warhol style. Venue provided Security are no doubt wearing black polo shirts and belts with walkie talkies. Still, Stiles can’t make himself take it off. It would be bad luck.

The shock of actually finding him hits as a two punch combo. Because not only does Stiles actually have Scott goddamn McCall within running up and squealing distance, he also has...well... simply put Stiles walked in at a really fucking opportune time to find out new information about his celebrity crush. Such as despite how pop-punk dapper he looks on stage -not quite steampunk, more industrial with a tophat- Scott relaxes in sweatpants before he goes on stage. Such as he has a tattoo on his inner thigh that heretofore was only rumoured, and it doesn’t match the thick bands around his arm. Such as he’s kinkier than average, and into crossdressing.

“Okay, so. Wow. That was unexpected.”

Scott jolts at the comment, like maybe he didn’t hear the door open, and tugs his riveted jeans the rest of the way up, faster than is probably kind to his leg hair. Either the stagepants were created to hide Scott’s taste in underwear, or Scott picked out a pair that wouldn’t show, because none of the baby blue is visible above the belt loops. The flinch makes Stiles think he should be fucking off, before he gets arrested for peeping tomming -unless it’s called something different when the second party is aware of the looking?- but he can’t quite make himself leave. This could still be salvageable. After all, Scott’s not taking a swing or screaming for Security. 

“Who are you and why didn’t you knock?” Scott asks, voice momentarily muffled while he pulls on a similarly metal accentuated shirt. 

“I’m Stiles. I’m probably not your _biggest_ fan, it’s not like I have your face tattooed on my arm or anything. But I’m the one brave enough to bribe my way back here. And catch you in the buff, apparently. Or half buff, I guess. Does your bottom half count as covered if you’re wearing panties?”

Stiles’s impressed with himself. By all rights he should be a gibbering wreck right now. That’s what happens when you meet your idol; you fall to shit. But he’s not. He’s holding his own. It says really good things for the journalism degree he’s considering switching majors to. Anderson Cooper never hyperventilates into a paper bag, and apparently neither does he.

Scott makes a face, and Stiles figures he’s about to be called out for being a giant creeper. That’s not how the next thirty seconds go at all. “Go ahead and tell Twitter or TMZ if you want. I’m sure they get about twenty scoops a day.”

He shakes his head, because there’s not a chance of that. Stiles knows a bunch of people on the fan comm whose ovaries would explode with the knowledge, but there are others who would be assholes about the new kink. It’s really better that he keeps it to himself. “The only thing I’m going to alert is my spank bank.”

“Excuse me?” 

Scott’s obviously giving him a chance to recant, but Stiles just isn’t that much of a liar. “You’re Scott McCall. Scott fuckin’ McCall. I’ve been jerking off about that ass since your first EP. And your hips, fuck, you’ve got the hips of the gods. And now I find out you’ve got tiny little baby blue strings tied in bows over those hips? Yeah, sorry. Eternal jerking off session.”

“Feeling kind of complimented and kind of objectified right now.”

“Hey, look, if you want to give me a spare pair and objectify me, I’m down with that. Otherwise I’ll just continue telling you how hot you are, and daydreaming about groping you.” Because Stiles’s not going to be that fan. Walking in on changing was a mistake, and he’s sort of a bad person for not backing away, but he can at least not cross the line of assaulting him.

In reply Scott grins. Stiles’s seen about a thousand gifs of that smile, and he’s reblogged them all a dozen times, but seeing it live and five feet away is indescribably better. “I’m not giving you a spare pair. You have no idea how hard it is to wash clothes on tour. But I’ve got about ten minutes before Dallas finishes meditating and comes looking for me, so you’ve got eight minutes to grope away.”

All composure Stiles’s been keeping crumbles to nothing, and his brain completely shuts down. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drooling. Things like this don’t just happen, not unless you’re the luckiest girl at the KISS concert. It’s completely impossible to think about. The last minuscule scrap of coherence he has left screams at him to cross the room and get to groping. Eight minutes isn’t a lot of time to make Scott motherfucking McCall orgasm fifteen times like he deserves. 

He tugs at Scott’s hastily pulled up jeans. They’re too tight to drop far, but that’s fine. Stiles doesn’t need that much room. His left hand goes to the tie on Scott’s right hip. He doesn’t undo it, choosing instead to play with it. He glides his hand up and down Scott’s hip, the strings twisting clockwise then counter clockwise as he does so. The bow turns into a twisted lump under his palm, then quickly unspirals when he backs his palm off a little. It’s a warm up touch, something sensual but light, since Stiles’s sure Scott wouldn’t want to make out. This sort of thing isn’t a two way street. 

But even though he’s pretty sure he could get off to this lone action in the future, after a minute he moves it along. He does what Scott offered; he flat out gropes him, panties smooth and delicate against his fingers. Scott’s only got a semi, but Stiles knows can change that. He cups one hand against the bottom of the panties, the thin strip keeping Scott’s balls in place, and starts his fingertips moving in tiny circles. His other hand goes for the main goods. The front of Scott’s panties push down easy as pie. Stiles hopes for a moment he hasn’t worn the side strings out too badly. He doesn’t want his legacy to be ‘the asshole that ruined my last clean pair’. Once they’re down, there it is, in all it’s glory. Scott’s dick is a thing of beauty. It’s long, big, and cut, exactly the way Stiles imagined it every time a conversation about a Scott McCall sex tape started on the comm.

It’s hardly the first time Stiles has jerked someone off. As a card carrying bisexual college student, it would be weirder if he _hadn’t_ given a random handjob or five. It is, though, the first time he’s been so desperate to please. He wants Scott to love it. No, he _needs_ Scott to love it. And thank all the gods, he does.

The face Scott makes as he comes is worth of a billion gifsets. At that moment Stiles just can’t help himself. Rather than go for a kleenex, or even the brown recycled paper napkin that’s wrapped half around a coffee cup, he wipes his come laden hand on his new merch shirt. He promises himself as he does so that he won’t be creepy. He won’t never wash the t-shirt, or try to sell the dried flakes online. He just wants a visceral flashback of this every time he sees the hem.

“This has easily been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Stiles can’t think of anything that would come close to comparing. Maybe in ten years when he gets married, or his kid takes it’s first step, but right now nothing compares to a rockstar’s cock in hand.

Scott grins again, and goddamn if Stiles’s not gonna pop a boner the next time the expression comes up on his dashboard. “You haven’t heard my set yet.”

Fuck. Stiles almost forgot he still gets to hear over an hour of live music, bouncing around in a moshpit with a thousand other people who understand his love. Yeah, there’s no way a wedding will top this night.


End file.
